


i do not care for the winter sun

by ictus



Category: DCU (Comics), Midnighter (Comics), Midnighter and Apollo (Comics)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, M/M, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 15:43:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17144549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ictus/pseuds/ictus
Summary: M disappears from Apollo’s life so quickly, he can’t help but wonder how long he’s been planning it.





	i do not care for the winter sun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [duckgirlie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/duckgirlie/gifts).



> Follows the events of Midnighter (2015) from Apollo's POV, also makes reference to Grayson #4. Title from [I do not care for the winter sun](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mzGFe3JHddA) by Beach House.

 

These are the things he remembers: M’s hand on the nape of his neck, tentative in a way that it’s never been before. His downcast eyes. The hollowness in his voice when he says, _I don’t know how to be me without you_.

M disappears from Apollo’s life so quickly, he can’t help but wonder how long he’s been planning it.

Apollo follows him out to the street, watches him blend into the crowd and become someone anonymous, his parting words echoing in his head. _I don’t want to fight you and I don’t know how to lose—_

And Apollo, hovering fifty feet above the streets of Opal City, speaks the words out loud. “Maybe you just did.”

 

: : :

 

Life goes on. It has to, because there is no other option.

Apollo spends his days chasing the feeble rays of the winter sun, doing good where he can. He shrugs on his costume with a heavy heart, feeling like half of a whole, and tells himself it’s only temporary. At the end of each day he collapses into their shared bed, onto sheets that still smell like M. At every turn, every moment, Apollo expects him; strains his ears for the sound of a door materialising, dreams each morning of waking up next to him.

For two weeks, he lets routine carry him. He goes through the motions, trying not to think about how their apartment’s too quiet, too empty. Until one day, one ordinary, unremarkable day, it hits him like a freight train.

Apollo’s doing the dishes, thinking about how they’re nearly out of milk and that rent’s coming up this month. He’s washing up after dinner, putting the clean plates away, when he sees it: a blue mug with a Superman shield. M had bought it for him last Christmas. Apollo still remembers the crinkle at the corners of his eyes, his cheesy grin when he’d said, _you’re the only Superman I’ll ever need_.

Apollo’s chest seizes at the memory and suddenly he’s on his knees, choking back the sobs. M has been a constant in his life for as long as he can remember, for as long as _either_ of them can remember, and the idea that he might be gone forever is unfathomable. The grief rolls over him in waves, and for a long time all he can do is shake, his vision blurred with tears, helpless on the floor of this home that they’ve built together.

When he finally summons up the will to move, he takes off in the direction of the setting sun and doesn’t return for days.

 

: : :

 

One night, missing him gets so much that Apollo locks himself out of their apartment and heads to a bar. The moon is full and bright above him but he keeps his eyes trained on the ground, thinks of anything other than what—or who—M might be doing right now.

It’s taken him weeks to accept this, but he’s only just beginning to grasp the extent to which his life is intertwined with M’s. How all of his friends were M’s friends first, how M’s absence has left a hole in his life in more ways than one.

 _I don’t know how to be me without you_.

He finds a bar and orders something on ice, feeling instantly at ease. It’s a relief to be around other people, to be surrounded by muted chatter rather than the suffocating silence of their apartment. Sitting alone at the bar, it’s almost as if he could be waiting on someone—an idea that feels both strange and intoxicating.

He’s just finishing the last of his drink when he hears a voice. “Can I get you another one?”

Apollo starts. The man by his side is attractive and effortlessly confident, his voice gone smooth with liquor. Apollo licks his lips and thinks about how this man would look in their bed, his dark hair fanning out over the pillow. Thinks of the press of his thighs around Apollo’s waist, thinks of the moans Apollo could draw from him and how they would sound ringing out in their bedroom. Thinks of waking up to a warm body pressed against his, of soft kisses on the nape of his neck.

He’s so close to saying yes, it’s already on the tip of his tongue. But then the man leans forward and his eyes catch the light, and Apollo swallows down his response. His eyes are gorgeous, green flecked with hazel, and Apollo can’t help it, can’t help but be reminded of M.

Instead he smiles ruefully and raises his glass to his mouth.

“Sorry, I’m taken,” he says, and it doesn’t even taste like a lie.

 

: : :

 

The next time he sees M, he’s in Dubai at the top of the world’s tallest building. He’s conducting a brutal yet effective interrogation, holding his suspect by the ankle and dangling him 160 stories over the city while he screams and begs for mercy.

“He doesn’t know anything.”

M’s answering sigh is probably only partly due to the intel, and more likely because of Apollo’s presence. The thought makes him ache. There’s something about seeing him face to face for the first time in a month that makes something unravel in Apollo’s chest. He’s spent countless nights imagining their next encounter, planning exactly what he’d say down to the very last word. But that carefully-constructed façade is crumbling in favour of a sudden desire to plead, to beg, to remind M of everything they shared, of everything they can still be for each other.

“We have a job to do,” is what he decides to say instead. “It’s time to come back to Stormwatch.” He hesitates. “It’s time to come back to me.”

At this altitude, the wind is whipping M’s coat around him in a way that conceals his body language, and his face is shrouded by his mask so Apollo can’t get a read on his expression. But he knows.

Still, he came here for a reason.

“Let him go,” he says finally.

“Okay,” he says, and he does. The man tumbles out of the sky and Apollo’s heart plummets with him, realising this opportunity is slipping through his fingers and there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

“You know I have to get him before he hits the plaza.”

“Yep. And you know I’ll be gone by the time you get back.”

Apollo grits his teeth and shoots M one last withering glare, then dives towards the ground at full speed and doesn’t look back.

 

: : :

 

In the months that follow, the sharpness of M’s loss fades into something manageable, something he can wrap his hands around and bury deep within himself. He spends more and more time in the field, starts reconnecting with some of his old Stormwatch associates, begins to take jobs off-planet.

Eventually, Apollo stops asking after him. If anyone notices, they don’t comment.

Opal City is still clinging to the last vestiges of winter by the time he returns. The days are starting to lengthen, but the sun is shrouded more often than not, leaving him weary and making his bones ache. He returns to an apartment that still feels too big, to sheets that smell like himself and no one else. He collapses face-first onto the bed, letting the stress of the last month drain out of him, and it’s not until he cracks his eyes that he realises something’s different.

Placed upon a pillow, upon _M’s_ pillow, is a package. There’s a name attached, but it’s not the name of a hero or a god. It’s one that he’s heard whispered in the dark like a secret that they shared, spoken with an untold reverence as if it were something sacred.

_Andrew._

Apollo tears open the paper, heart in his throat, and gasps at what he finds.

It’s a framed photograph of a boy. His eyes are bluer than Apollo knows, have yet to take on the green hue that he’s become so familiar with. But the flecks of hazel are still there, unique and unmistakable.

“Lucas,” he murmurs out loud, his fingers barely brushing the glass. _Midnighter,_ he corrects in his head. Lucas Trent doesn’t exist, never did, and it’s a truth that he’s been struggling to live with for the better part of the last three months.

_I’m not anyone, Andrew. I don’t have a name, a childhood—_

But he does. Here, in his hands, is proof of the boy that M used to be. Apollo’s eyes sting with unshed tears, his throat closing up. He thought nothing could ever soothe the pain of M tearing himself out of his life, but he’d endure that a thousand times over if it meant M reconnecting with a part of himself he thought he’d lost.

He turns over the frame looking for a note, but there isn’t one. His hands tremble as he gently places it on their shared dresser.

It looks right.

 

: : :

 

These are the things he remembers: waking at dawn to the sun’s morning rays, the magnolia blooming bright and fragrant outside his bedroom window. The first sip of coffee, strong and bitter like he’s always loved it. The crackle of static from the bedroom—

He races into the other room, finds the sound is coming from the dresser. In between bursts of static, he can hear a voice, _M’s_ voice.

_Andrew, I need you. 42.3314 degrees north. 83.0458 degrees west._

Apollo disappears so quickly, his sonic boom rings out for miles. The rush of wind in his ears is drowned out by the thud of his own racing heart, drowned out by the sound of M’s voice as it echoes around his head.  

_Andrew, I need you._

Apollo recovers M from Layton’s ship mere seconds before it explodes. He’s bruised and battered and _breathing_ , and the relief of snatching him from death is enough to make his head spin.

“Almost too late. Did you have something better to do?” The words are slurred, almost lost to the wind, but Apollo catches them and smiles in spite of himself.

“Shut up and hold on.”

M’s in bad shape, the worst Apollo’s ever seen him. By the time Apollo brings him back to his apartment, he’s fading in and out of consciousness, murmuring nonsense and not quite there. Apollo dresses his wounds with an untold gentleness, keeps watch over him day and night. Tries not to think about how seeing M in his bed, having him here again—how it feels right in a way he can’t explain. So much has changed between them and hope—

Hope is a dangerous thing, an indulgence he can’t allow himself.

When M finally wakes he’s groggy and disoriented. Apollo’s heart skips a beat but he resists the urge to cross the room and embrace him, forces himself to keep his distance.

He smiles faintly when he sees Apollo. “You kept it.”

“Kept what?”

“The picture.”

Apollo’s voice is stuck in his throat. “Well I couldn’t have known that you’d rigged a remotely-activated communicator to a photo frame so you could send a distress signal if you were in danger.” He’s helpless to stop the smile forming on his own lips. “But yeah, I kept it.”

M’s smile warms him brighter than any sun. He sits up without so much as a wince, his injuries already healed, and Apollo is desperately grateful for that fact, can’t help but think of how close he came to losing him.

“Andrew, I—”

 _Here it goes,_ he thinks. _This is it_. For a long time they just stare at each other from either side of the room, M hesitating and Apollo holding his breath. When M finally speaks, his voice is hollow, defeated.

“I broke things between us. The truth is, I didn’t like who I was—a fight machine, barely a person, not even a name. I couldn’t bear for you to see the ugly side of me, I thought you couldn’t handle it. So I lied. I’m sorry.” 

Apollo lets out the tiniest exhale, not yet daring to hope.

“Since we broke up…” M drops his gaze, runs a hand through his hair. “I’ve worked at being better, at letting people in and trusting them. And those people who I trusted—trusted the way I should have trusted you from the start—they ended up saving me.” He raises his eyes to meet Apollo’s. “I know I messed up. I know I made mistakes. And I don’t expect anything from you, Andrew. But at the end of the world, there wasn't anyone else I wanted to see.”

Relief washes over him, the feeling so powerful he’s weak with it. He’s sure it’s written over his face but M’s eyes are still wide and uncertain.

“You know, that’s quite a line.”

His face breaks into a smile that would be bashful if he didn’t look so pleased with himself. “I learned from the best.”

M’s eyes track him with intent as he crosses the room to join him on the bed. Their shoulders bump, and the simple contact ignites a spark of longing deep in Apollo’s gut. He wants to take M’s face in his hands, to climb into his lap and kiss him until they’re breathless, but everything is still so fragile between them that he doesn’t dare test this newfound balance, not yet.

Instead, he says, “you didn’t really think I’d let you get blown up, did you?”

M shrugs unconvincingly. “It crossed my mind.”

“Someone had to remind you that you were mortal.”

M snorts and Apollo is again struck by the urge to kiss him. But suddenly M’s closing the distance between them and pressing his lips to the corner of his mouth, erasing any indecision or misgivings he might have had.

“You of all people should know that some gods walk the earth.”

 

: : :

 

The next morning, Apollo wakes as he always does—with the sun.

Except this time, there’s a body pressed against his. He keeps his eyes closed and breathes in M’s familiar scent, wanting to hold onto the moment for a little longer, barely able to believe he’s not dreaming.

When he finally cracks open his eyes, he can’t stop himself from staring, unable to tear his gaze away from M as if he can catalogue every tiny detail that’s changed in his absence. He runs a hand over his chest, feels its rise and fall with each breath, and follows the trail with his lips. He’s already hard where he’s pressed against the mattress, and the feel of M’s skin beneath his hands is only serves to draw attention to that fact.

“Were you planning on waking me up at some point, or do you not need me to participate?” M’s voice is rough and gravelly from sleep and Apollo’s heart stutters when he realises that not even a day ago, he didn’t believe he’d ever have this again.

“I thought I _was_ waking you up,” he says, sinking his teeth into the hollow of M’s hipbone.

M sucks in a breath through his teeth, the outline of his erection clearly visible through the sheets that pool around his waist. Apollo takes his time relearning M’s body through touch, wanting to remember this moment and make it last.

M’s cursing liberally by the time Apollo swallows him down, slow and languid. M tries to thrust into his mouth but Apollo holds him steady, presses his tongue to the underside in a way that has M grasping at the sheets. The sounds M’s making have him equally desperate, aching with a need to be touched, and it’s not long before Apollo feels his own resolve begin to crumble.

When he finally pulls off, M’s flushed and panting, his lip swollen where he’s been biting it. Apollo can’t resit. He takes M’s lower lip between his own and worries it with his teeth. M moans against his lips before licking into his mouth, turning the kiss into something fervent and desperate.  

Apollo breaks the kiss—not without some reluctance—and reaches for the bedside drawer.

“Are you going to let me do that?”

“Nope,” he replies, pouring lube onto his fingers.

M arches an eyebrow. “And why not?”

“Because,” he says, eyes fluttering closed at the first press of his fingers, “if I let you do it, you’re going to torture me for hours.”

M’s smirk is nothing short of wicked. “You’re damn right,” he says and draws Apollo into another kiss.

Apollo works himself open as quickly as he can, and when M gets a hand around him it only adds to his sense of urgency. It’s not long before he’s reaching back and slowly— _agonisingly_ slowly—sinking down onto M’s cock. His mouth falls open in a soundless moan, and he sees his desire reflected on M’s face for the briefest of moments before he lets his eyes fall shut and surrenders completely to the sensation. M’s hands are everywhere—running over his thighs, kneading his hips, his nails raking down his chest—and his over-sensitised body shivers at the touch.

M gives him a moment to acclimatise to the stretch before he takes him in hand again, long, measured strokes that have Apollo clenching around him. Apollo’s barely moving, just small jerks of his hips as he twitches under M’s hands. And yet, just the feeling of being filled, of feeling M pressed inside him already has him on the edge.

“God I missed you so much,” he says, pressing his forehead to M’s.

“I missed you too,” he murmurs, steadying him with a hand on the nape of his neck. “Gonna come like this?” he asks, aiming for smug but sounding far too breathless to pull it off.

“Not without you fucking me,” he says and grinds down to prove his point. M groans in response and begins driving into him, resolve already ground to dust.

With both of them on the edge for so long, it’s not even a question of making it last. Apollo comes with a shout as M fucks him through it, causing him to shudder and shake. M’s not far behind, his grip iron-strong on Apollo’s hips as he drives into his body one last time. Apollo’s name falls from his lips and it’s not the name of a hero, not the name of a god.

They stay pressed together like that until their breathing slows and Apollo gingerly eases off him to collapse at his side. M wipes the mess off his stomach with a discarded t-shirt and Apollo takes that as an invitation to sprawl out on his chest, to press his ear to his heart and listen as it gradually slows and returns to normal. For a long time, neither of them speak, content just to hold and be held.

Soon they’ll get up and shower, make coffee and start their day. But with the sun’s rays caressing his bare skin and M’s heartbeat steady beneath his fingers, Apollo realises he’s in no hurry.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The Superman mug [is canon](https://i.imgur.com/b9awUtV.png), actually.
> 
> You can also find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/scansionictus).


End file.
